


The Adventure Of The Slipshod Woman

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [12]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cumberland, England (Country), Gay Male Character, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Murder, Police, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 12:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Truth will out, and a policeman finds that a case he had thought solved was anything but. Sherlock meets John for the first time and they move into rooms together, then travel to Cumberland to solve a double murder.





	The Adventure Of The Slipshod Woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



> (Also referenced in the original canon as one of the two cases in which Holmes assisted Inspector Alexander Macdonald).

_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

When Sherlock told me that he had arranged to move into rooms in Baker Street with some medical fellow he had met through a mutual friend, I am sorry to say that my first reaction was to fear that his new room-mate might soon have the desire to make me minus one sibling when, as I was sure would happen, said gentleman was inevitably driven to murder. I had no way of knowing that one of the most remarkable partnerships of my generation had just come into being, but I determined that it was best if his new room-mate knew little of my existence, or at the very least of my involvement in Kean's growing business.

 _Someone_ has just said something quite inappropriate (if accurate) about his 'growing business'. Excuse me.....

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

One of the many questions that I was asked by 'Sherlockians' in later years was as to just when I realized what sort of gentleman I had taken rooms with. In the stories that I published the revelation came slowly, but in truth it hit me with the very first case that we shared together – one which made me view a certain profession in a totally new light.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was not the most communicative of fellows, but in that first week I learnt that he had two brothers both elder than himself, and that one was always in London whilst the other split his time between the city and the family estates in Sussex. I also noted, as I observed elsewhere, the stream of markedly different people who came to Baker Street to see Holmes, for reasons I had not yet fathomed. One in particular was one of the largest policemen I had ever seen, an inspector from his markings whom our housekeeper Mrs. Hudson mentioned to me was a Mr. Alexander Macdonald. She gave me a most knowing look when telling me that, for reasons I would shortly discover.

On this particular day I had arrived back at the house early, as I had had two clients who had been considerate enough to both live locally and have non-urgent conditions that I could attend to at the end of my rounds. Having no wish to go back to the surgery for the outside chance of a late additional client I decided to go home, and arrived at 221B at the same time as Inspector Macdonald. He looked oddly disconcerted at my presence and I wondered why.

“The inspector has come to seek my advice on a police matter”, Holmes explained as we all sat down in our rooms. “There are certain.... challenging problems that sometimes benefit from an outsider's point of view.”

I supposed that that might be true.

“As you know”, the huge policeman said, “I started out in the Cumberland and Westmorland Constabulary, this side of the Border.”

(I had thought that his accent was familiar. My own family came from Northumberland and Roxburghshire, both not far from the area that he had worked in). 

“There was a case up there that was quite big locally”, the inspector continued, “although I dare say it didn't reach down here. It was almost the last case I took before I left, eight years back. It seemed straightforward enough at the time; a rich gentleman Mr. Tertius Knight had owned a large seafront house in the town. He died – the doctor was a bit suspicious but nothing could be proven - and against all expectations left all his money to his cleaner, a Mrs. Ventnor. Nothing improper I might add, though tongues did wag; Mrs. Ventnor's husband had died some years back and she was not that attractive. Mr. Knight's had had only one child, then Mrs. Miller – divorced and no surprise, everyone said! - so she had expected to inherit, but he left her just a farthing! She was suspected of his death and fled to France, but she must have realized that the game was up and drowned herself off Dover. Good riddance was the general opinion.”

“That seems all in order”, Holmes said. “What happened to the cleaner?”

“Mrs. Ventnor sold the house – the local council wanted it for a seafront park, plus it got her away from all the gossips – and bought herself a small place in a village called Bowness.”

“I know of that place”, I said. “That is where Hadrian's great wall ends.”

“Technically correct”, Holmes smiled. “That is where the physical wall ends. Although one should not exclude the chain of defensive forts that extend along the cost as far as Maryport.”

I scowled at him. Show-off! The inspector chuckled at me.

“That pretty much seemed that until a few weeks ago”, he said. “Then someone started asking questions about the case around Allonby. 'Course in a rural area that sort of things draws attention, and.... I got to hear about it.”

He seemed strangely reticent about getting a break like that. Holmes explained.

“Police services have a rule”, he said, “that is basically not allowing those from one area to enter another unless there is a very good reason. A tad parochial in this say and age, but human nature is what it is.”

“I see”, I said.

“You would require me to go to Cumberland and investigate this matter?” Holmes asked the inspector.

That, I admit, did surprise me. Even in our brief acquaintance I had come to the opinion (which later events would justify) that Holmes hated leaving London. 

“The inspector clearly thinks it an important matter”, Holmes said (he was occasionally prone to mind-reading tendencies I had noted, which was annoying), “and since he cannot go himself, then yes. My regards to everyone at your work, Macdonald.”

I do not know why, but the huge policeman blushed at that for some reason and quickly left. How odd.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

As a doctor, I am sometimes forced to give my patients bad news. So when Holmes asked if we might talk about the inspector's visit, I immediately feared the worst. I had used that look myself far too often.

“It is not life-threatening”, he said reassuringly, “but if we are to room together for any length of time then there are certain facets of my life of which you should be made aware.”

Lord above, what was it? I knew from our brief acquaintance thus far that he had some 'curious' habits – the pistol shooting indoors was a little unnerving, and I already suspected that he took some form of drugs – but this bode very ill. 

He reached into a drawer on his writing-desk and extracted a small catalogue which he handed to me. I looked at it and gulped.

“This has pictures of..... gentlemen”, I said weakly.

It did. Photographs of gentlemen wearing, if truth be told, very little. And descriptions alongside that suggested that the favours of said 'gentlemen' might be obtained for money. Ye Gods!

“Page forty-four”, he said quietly.

Still stunned I turned to said page, only for my world to be shaken even more. 'Angus, Prime Scottish Beef', wearing only a leather harness and a kilt. A very _short_ kilt. Ye Gods (again) it was Inspector Macdonald!

“The poor fellow was compelled to marry young”, Holmes explained, “an arranged union with a cousin he did not like and who more than returned his disaffection. She and he live totally separate lives albeit in the same house, and.... he works at a molly-house.”

This could not be worse!

“Owned by my brother Sherrinford's lover, Mr. Kean Hardland.”

I took that back, and stared at Holmes in amazement. A London police inspector selling his body like that.... what sort of world had I blundered into?

“I do not judge”, Holmes said dryly, filling his pipe as he spoke. “This is London after all. And to all appearances the inspector is a happily married man.”

“Who sells his.... I mean, why?”

“Mostly for the sexual release”, Holmes said calmly, as if he was not shaking my world on its axis. “Although it pays well. And Mr. Hardland is an excellent employer; he inherited some twelve houses and has already added a thirteenth.”

I was silent.

“I am sorry”, he said, belatedly realizing that I was more than a little surprised at all these revelations. “I had hoped that you might accompany me in my investigation.”

“To Cumberland?” I asked. I was still reeling, but I had a particular liking for the Lakes and was not about to miss a trip there just because of a few principles.

“I shall have to go”, he said resignedly. “Obviously someone amongst the inspector's clients haled from that area and has told him something about the case.”

“Why did he not tell you that?” I asked.

“Obviously it must have been a former colleague”, Holmes said, “who knew about his secondary position.”

My unhelpful mind immediately suggested as to just what positions 'Angus, Prime Scottish Beef' was capable of. Holmes smiled.

“It is often said”, he observed, “if somewhat crudely, that those in the upper levels of an organization are wont to 'shaft' those beneath them. I presume that one of the inspector's former subordinates took the opportunity to reverse that process for once.”

I glared at him. _Not_ helping!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

A few days later, Holmes and I were staying in the luxury of the Station Hotel in Carlisle. He had insisted on paying all my expenses as, he said, he felt that he would benefit from having a companion in this investigation. I was unsure as to just how useful I might be, but I was determined to try my best.

“We shall begin our inquiries at the local railway station”, he said. “That, presumably, is where the villainess would have decamped after her crime began to unravel and they may remember her there.”

“After all these years?” I asked incredulously.

“This is a very small, very insular railway company”, he said. “You may be surprised.”

I supposed that that was true, although I still thought that it was a long shot. The Maryport & Carlisle Railway Company was one of the smaller railways in the country, snug in its corner of Cumberland between the industrial ports and collieries of the west and the Border City to the north. It should also be said that, unlike many railway companies of the time, it was also highly profitable. I had purchased shares in it some years back and they had never failed to yield a most welcome dividend.

Our little train steamed into Aspatria Station right on time. After the other passengers had departed Holmes sought out the stationmaster, a Mr. Percy Maine, and asked if there was anyone here from the time of the case. His long shot turned out to be a good one; both the stationmaster himself and the ticket-vendor were the same as back then, although the latter was off duty just then.

“But he lives in the railway cottages, sir”, the stationmaster said, “just outside the station. Number three with the bright blue door. You'll find him there.”

_(I feel that I should remark at this point how my regard for Holmes increased by the way in which I had seen him treat what were then called 'the lower orders of society'. I had seen too many of our class talk down to people as if they were in some way less than human, and had thought that such behaviour said rather more about those giving such treatment than those receiving it. Holmes could be brusque at times but that was with anyone, regardless of class)._

“Do you remember anything from those times?” Holmes asked. “And on a related issue, have you been asked about them of late?”

A strange look came over the man's face. 

“Someone _was_ asking about it, sir”, he said. “Only last month. Short gentleman, almost round he was so fat, and quite young. Not a local, by his accent I'd say; from the West Country or thereabouts. I didn't tell him anything because, well, I didn't quite trust him. But there was something at the time though I thought nothing of it back then. Only later.”

“Go on”, Holmes pressed.

“Just a few days before he died, old Mr. Knight had a box sent down to London”, he said. “Huge thing; one of those antique Spanish chests. My Ethel got one recently, all brass, and it's a devil to keep clean.”

“But you said nothing at the time?” I wondered. The stationmaster blushed.

“Point was, sir, none of us could stand his daughter Mrs. Miller. She was a right... well, she was no lady. Her husband had run off to Africa to get away from her and I don't wonder at it. We were chuffed when good old Mrs. Ventnor got everything, especially with her having lost her husband and all. Mrs. M. went to the house – her father's house - but Sergeant Macdonald as was, he caught her there.”

“So?” I asked.

“All the silver and stuff was gone, sir”, the stationmaster said. “I just thought that, well, that was what had to have been in the chest. He sent it to someone for safe keeping or for them to keep. Back then Mrs. Miller was challenging the will in court and there was a chance she might still get everything, so.... um....”

“You decided 'not to remember', stationmaster”, Holmes smiled. “That is understandable, given the circumstances. We shall adjourn to ask your ticket-vendor if his memory was also, ahem, 'variable'.”

The stationmaster blushed deeply, but a generous coin from my friend seemed to remedy that.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mr. Andrew Farragut was a small, bespectacled man of unprepossessing appearance, who lived with his wife in their small cottage. I have heard the phrase 'not enough room to swing a cat', but his 'main room' was incredibly small. I felt like I had to breathe in to avoid taking up too much space! Holmes explained why we were here, and once again there was a definite reaction.

“Your stationmaster told us that someone had been asking people about this case only recently”, Holmes said smoothly. “A tall, heavily tanned man, blond and with a most distinctive moustache. He spoke with a foreign accent, possibly Germanic.”

It was fortunate that despite the smallness of the room our host could not see my start. That was not how the stationmaster had described the man at all!

“That's him exactly, sir”, the ticket-vendor said, only adding to my confoundment. “Asking about the case after all these years; it fair put the wind up me.”

“I doubt that you would remember much after all this time”, Holmes said.

“Well, funny you should say that, sir”, the man said. “His asking – and there was no way I was going to tell some foreigner like that anything, I can tell you! - it set me thinking. And there was something a bit odd, though it was such a small thing I thought nothing of it at the time.”

“Go on”, Holmes urged. 

“The Company sells through tickets”, the man said, “and I knows that Mrs. Miller offed herself in Kent. But she only bought a ticket from me as far as Carlisle. I wondered.... why? Why only to there when she could buy all the way to Dover? She might even miss the connection; it's not that long.”

“I think that I can see a reason why”, Holmes smiled, “but I need just a little more help. Is there anyone else – I suppose we would be looking at Allonby rather than here – who might know anything?”

The ticket-vendor smiled shyly.

“I probably shouldn't say this, sir”, he said, “but you might ask Mrs. Paterson. She keeps Scarlet Cottage, three doors down from where it all happened in Allonby. It's directly opposite the new bandstand right on the sea-front. She's the biggest gossip in the village, if not all of Cumberland!”

“How do you know that?” I asked. The man blushed and his wife giggled.

“She's me bloody sister!” 

I did not laugh. But it was close.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We did not go straight to Mrs. Paterson's house but to the little post office in Allonby, where Holmes fired off a telegram. He presumably expected a reply in short order because he suggested lunch at the curiously large hotel set back from the sea-front - did they really have that many people staying in an out of the way place like this? Sure enough a boy brought the answer whilst we were just finishing a delicious meal. Holmes tipped him and sat back, looking content.

“The case is nearly complete”, he said. “There will be an arrest quite soon. Although I am inclined towards a small spot of revenge first.”

“Against whom?” I said. “And complete? How?”

“Mrs. Paterson will complete the picture for us”, Holmes said confidently.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mrs. Gwendolen Paterson was a large woman, who squinted uncertainly at us through pince-nez. She was indeed as talkative as her brother had admitted to.

“Oh of course I remember the case, dears”, she said, pouring out coffee for us both. “Such excitement in our little village. How can one forget it?”

I felt her keenness was a little macabre.

“I have a question”, Holmes said. “Mrs. Ventnor. She purchased a house up in Bowness. Did she perchance carry on cleaning?”

That seemed a particularly odd question, but our hostess beamed at him for some reason.

“She did not”, she said. “I have a friend in Drumburgh not far from her new house, and he knows someone in her village.”

This was getting odder and odder, I thought.

“I believe that there is a saying”, Holmes smiled. “Justice may be delayed but it is never denied.”

“That may or may not be true”, she said. “Tell me Mr. Holmes – do you follow justice or the law?”

“Always justice”, he said. 

“Then let judgement run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream.”

From the Book of Amos, I thought. But justice for whom?

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Who was the telegram from?” I asked, as we journeyed back to Aspatria.

“A contact in the Metropolitan Police”, he said. “I wanted to ask him a question, although I suspected that I already knew the answer.”

I glared at him. He chuckled.

“I wished to know if Inspector Macdonald was at work this week”, he said.

“And?” I pressed.

“He is on a week's leave to attend to the funeral of a close relative in Carnarvonshire.”

He seemed oddly pleased at the inspector heading to North Wales. I wondered why.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Strangely, three days passed without Holmes seeming to make any efforts to pursue the case. I knew that he had sent off and received more telegrams, but bearing in mind our last port of call was not much more than a dozen or so miles west of Carlisle, his lack of action seemed odd. Although I did not complain as it gave me time to explore the city and its Roman remains, and we even had a short excursion to the east to see one part of the great wall that had survived more or less intact. 

On the fourth day we left the station for a second time. And in a somewhat unusual manner!

Probably unique amongst railways of this time the Port Carlisle Railway still used horse-drawn carriages, so our speed itself was... well, it was not. Worse, however, were the frankly bizarre seating arrangements, which seemed to have somehow jumped across from the mercifully distant stagecoach era. Our first-class compartment was in the front half of a tiny four-wheel coach, and accessed through a central door. Second-class was in the back and, incredibly, third-class was simply two short benches along the running-boards! I suppose the only blessing of the snail's pace speed was that if anyone did fall off then they might survive with only minimal injuries!

“We could always come back via third-class?” Holmes suggested slyly. “Think of all that fresh Cumberland air!”

I gave him such a look!

Fortunately we made it to Port Carlisle without mishap, although I dreaded the journey back. Bowness, where the rich Mrs. Ventnor lived, was only a mile further on and we were met on the station platform by a tall blond man in his fifties. Definitely someone in service by his appearance, although what he was doing here, only the Good Lord (and Holmes) knew.

“Mr. Holmes”, he said, looking far from pleased to be here.

“Mr. Beckton”, Holmes said, bowing. 

I had no idea who this person was, of course. I did not pout at that fact.

“The late Mr. Knight's former butler”, Holmes explained, as if that made it all obvious (it did not).

The three of us took a carriage the short distance on to Bowness, which as I said was the small village that sat at the end of the great wall. We went first to the local police station, and after a short stop inside Holmes emerged with three constables (rather a lot for a small village, I thought). We then drove in two cabs to “Romayne Cottage”, a small but well-maintained house on the coast set a little apart from the rest of the houses.

Holmes strode up to the door and knocked loudly, and it was opened by a middle-aged woman. She looked at Holmes in alarm and tried to slam the door on him but he forced his way in, followed by the constables. Moments later they were dragging her out of the house and down the path towards us. Mr. Beckton gasped.

“Madam?”

She looked at him in shock

“Oh bloody 'ell!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It was some little time later, and we were sat in the small police station at Bowness. I had seen a carriage drawn up outside as we had all come in, and had hoped that it and not that death-trap of a railway would be our means of getting back to Carlisle. 

“This has been a most interesting case”, Holmes said to Constable Maxwell. “I would be delighted to tell you all about it. But before I do, may I suggest that you invite the gentleman currently listening in on us in the back room to step through and join us?”

I thought for a moment that the constable was going to deny my friend, but fortunately there was no need. The door to the back room opened and a tall figure stepped through. 

My mouth fell open. It was Inspector Alexander Macdonald.

“I can see now how you rose to the dizzy heights of inspector, Mr. Macdonald”, Holmes smiled. “You played this scene most prettily, although I was suspicious from the start.”

“About what?” I demanded. Holmes turned to me.

“Some little time back”, he began, “a former colleague of the inspector comes to London. Naturally he seeks out his former superior, knowing something about his.... habits and finds him at a certain establishment. Does he not, constable?”

Constable Maxwell had gone bright red.

“The visit is, however, more about just two friends 'coming together'”, Holmes smiled (I glared at him for that). “The constable had acquired some new evidence about a case that the inspector had solved, or at least had thought to have solved. Evidence that suggested justice had in fact not been done, and that a perpetrator had gotten away with an almost perfect crime.”

He paused.

“A crime – two crimes – had been committed and very efficiently covered up”, he said. “Inspector, I know nearly all but I would ask one thing. What was the evidence that the constable here found?”

“The woman's clothes, sir”, the tall man said. “She ordered a whole lot from an expensive place in Carlisle, and it was her bad luck that the salesman had moved to the place from Allonby. People change over the years, of course, but what made him suspicious was the cat.”

I was all at sea.

“She took a cat shopping?” I asked. The inspector shook his head.

“Cat hair, sir”, he said. “The salesman checked the old newspapers in the town library, and found that he had been right. She had said back them that she was allergic to cats, but the clothes she had on definitely had cat hair on them, and a lot of it.”

The woman was guilty because she had acquired a pet? Any further out to sea and I would be in Ireland!

“Most slipshod of her”, Holmes said reprovingly. “What was important as far as the doctor and I are concerned is the old and, I think, rather unjustifiable practice in the modern police force that debars officers from personally going back over old cases. Your colleague could have re-opened the case himself, but chose to travel to London to, ahem, link up with you instead.”

If the constable went any redder I would be reaching for my doctor's bag.

“Well, we all take advantage of situations at times”, Holmes smiled. “You, inspector, then had to work a way round that to preserve your own position and yet bring justice, and you used my own small talents to do just that.”

The tall policeman had the grace to blush.

“You planned it very well. You still had many contacts in the area – the stationmaster, the ticket-vendor, the latter's gossiping sister – and you made sure that they were well-briefed. Unfortunately they were not well-briefed enough. The stationmaster gave us a description of the person suddenly looking into this case – who of course never existed – and suspecting something, I then gave a starkly different description to the ticket-vendor, who said that I had described them perfectly. One or both had to be lying, never mind the fact that people's memories are rarely that good.”

The inspector smiled at that.

“You were, of course, not in Carnarvonshire attending to the affairs of a recently passed relative. I knew that you were somewhere in the vicinity and wanted you to be 'in at the end', so to speak. I delayed obtaining the services of Mr. Beckton and made sure that the hotel receptionist knew that I planned to visit Bowness today. At least it enabled the good doctor to fit in some sight-seeing of those old ruins, to which he is so partial.”

How on earth had he known that about me?

“Sure enough”, he went on, “this morning the hotel clerk confirmed that a man matching your description had asked after me, saying that he was a lawyer, and had been told that I was 'away to Bowness today'. We then decamped here, and the lady on her way to Carlisle will soon be undertaking a less pleasant journey to somewhere rather warmer, courtesy of the long drop.”

“I still do not know what happened, though!” I objected. Holmes turned to me.

“It all comes down to the original crime”, he said. “Double murder.”

“Double?” I asked. He nodded.

“Mrs. Miller finds out about the will of her father”, he said. “She might challenge it in court, but that is expensive and risky. No, she finds a much better way of obtaining what she believes is rightfully hers. Knowing that Mrs. Ventnor is off work for a week, she visits her house and kills her.”

I stared at him in shock.

“She has already purloined a Spanish chest from her father's house, and she makes a public show of sending that away”, Holmes said. “She then kills her own father, and takes all the silver and plate. This is necessary because, of course, people will wonder what was in the chest; in fact the treasures were most likely sent away to be sold somewhere. The chest contained the body of her first victim.”

“She meets up with the chest again in London, and takes it down to Dover. She changes identities, and becomes 'Mrs. Ventnor', the inheritrix of her father's estate. That was the point of a drowning at sea; it would disguise the fact that the body had been dead for some days. As she had hoped Kent Police duly identify the victim as Mrs. Miller. Naturally she cannot return to Allonby, so she moves some distance up the coast to another place with no railway connection and a house some distance from anyone else. 

“Unfortunately for her, justice may be delayed but it is seldom denied. The salesman in Carlisle knows of the case in which Mrs. Ventnor inherited the money, and remembers that the newspapers mentioned that she was strongly allergic to cat hair. Yet the woman claiming to be Mrs. Ventnor has clothes covered in the stuff. He checks to confirm his suspicions, and word soon reaches the policeman who investigated and 'solved' the case originally.”

“I fixed for one of her old neighbours to call on her, just to check”, the inspector said. “He got shown to the house all right, but the woman who he had been told was 'Mrs. Ventnor' was the old man's daughter all right. He reported back to Maxwell here, who started out under me at Allonby. Sorry, Mr. Holmes sir, but the force would have come down on me like a ton of bricks if I'd have had any involvement in an old case.”

“And justice was done in the end”, Holmes smiled. “I am sure that Constable Maxwell enjoyed being 'under you'' inspector!”

We all glared at him for that!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
